Murder In The Aisle (Merry Summerfield Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Kris Pearson

  “Shocking thing to happen. Shocking,” Jim said, tugging his shapeless old stockman’s hat off and clasping it over his heart as though he was at a memorial service. His very hairy silver eyebrows shone impressively in the sunlight. The boy in jeans rather spoiled the moment by throwing another piece of tree down on the pile and starting a mini landslide of rolling logs.

  “Careful, Alex,” Jim admonished. “Watch your toes.”

  As the helper was clumping about in orange forestry gumboots I doubted his toes were in much danger because they’d be steel-capped and chainsaw proof. He glared at Jim Drizzle from under beetling black brows and began to re-stack the timber. He didn’t look at me at all.

  “Who do you think did it?” I asked Jim. I’ve always been one for asking direct questions because you sometimes get surprising answers.

  “Beats me,” he said, cramming his hat back on. “Pleasant little woman. Nice mother too. Old Crombie was a hell of a drinker, but the brother-in-law stepped in and did what he could.”

  Huh? Was someone actually sticking up for Tom Alsop?

  “Tom Alsop?” I asked, wanting to be certain that was who he meant.

  The boy looked across again, wide-eyed this time. Something had grabbed his attention for sure.

  “That’s him,” Jim said. “Generous chap. He built them a garage to keep the Mini in. The salt spray would have rusted it out otherwise.”

  “Didn’t they have money for their own garage?” Suddenly the lack of alcohol made sense. Not many houses would have half a bottle of sweet sherry as their entire supply. Maybe that had been Isobel’s private treat after her old soak of a dad had died?

  “I fear they didn’t,” Jim said. “It all went down old Crombie’s throat. But Tom Alsop’s a car man, and there was no point letting a car sit out in this corrosive air.”

  He raised his face and sniffed the briny breeze like a dog. I saw there was hair up his nose about as bushy as his eyebrows and looked away in a hurry.

  “So he arranged to get a garage built for them, and he paid for it, too,” he continued.

  “How long ago?” It was none of my business, but Jim seemed in a chatty mood. “It looks a bit dilapidated now.”

  “Salt spray and onshore winds,” he said. “You can imagine what they would have done to that little car. Must have been about fifteen years ago. What year’s the car?”

  I shrugged.

  “Not that that’ll tell you much. It was bought second-hand of course.” He looked down to where the teddies were enthusiastically sniffing at his boots. “You enjoying yourselves there, fellas?” he asked, bending down to pat them. “Are you smelling sheep or cattle or my dogs in that mud?” He laughed as though it was an oft-repeated joke. Whatever they were finding it had their tails waving like feathery metronomes.

  “The Police dropped the car back and put it in the garage so I haven’t needed to go in there,” I said.

  Why was I lying? And what would it matter anyway?

  Jim scratched his chin. “Pretty basic, I imagine. Just a bit of shelter for the car, but he kept an eye on the quality of the construction for sure. Tom’s not short of a penny, but he wanted his money’s worth.” He glanced over his shoulder. The boy was now scrolling through his phone, apparently oblivious to anything else. Jim raised his eyebrows at me. “What do they find to get lost in all the time? My grand-daughters are just as bad.”

  Jim hadn’t seen it, but I had. The boy had shot a fast glance in our direction and then looked down at the screen again. He was definitely listening. That was twice he’d been interested in Tom Alsop. Something else to wonder about.

  “Mustn’t hold you up,” I said, trying to encourage the dogs away from his boots. “I’ll feel better once I hear they’ve arrested someone for Isobel’s murder.”

  “Isolated place for a woman to live alone.”

  “Well, yes, but she seemed perfectly safe there. Who’d have expected her to die in the church with people only yards away?”

  We both shook our heads, and then I thought to ask about the lawn-mowing service. Maybe they worked for Jim, too? “I want to find out who mowed Isobel’s grass because it needs doing again soon. And if I’m in charge this week…?” I let the suggestion hang in the air.

  “No idea, Merry. Harry Benson from Greenaway does ours here.”

  “Ours too. I’ll give him a call. Bye for now.” I gave the leads another twitch. “Come on, you two.” Most reluctantly the little dogs deserted the Drizzle boots and we went on our way, keeping well to the side of the road in case vehicles came by. None did. Drizzle Farm and Isobel’s cottage were the last pieces of civilization along here.

  So Tom Alsop had overseen the garage. Did that mean the hidden office was his, built to his specifications? Somewhere to keep secret things separate from his work premises? Or had it always been an office for Isobel? And if it was, why had it been hidden like that? Or had she found it by accident and demanded a share in whatever he was doing there in return for her silence? My head was spinning with possibilities.

  The phone was ringing when I returned. It threw me into a panic because although I could hear it, I had no idea where to find it. I followed the noise to an ancient cream landline model half hidden behind a curtain on the wall of the central hallway. It was still ringing imperiously even though I’d taken a while to get there. I lifted the heavy receiver with its tangled spiral cord. “Hello?”

  “Yeah. It’s me. Alex. About the grass.”

  It took me a few minutes to compute that. Grass? Marijuana?

  “From this morning,” he added. “At Jim’s.”

  Isobel’s lawns! Well, if not quite lawns, then certainly grass.

  “Forty bucks to mow it,” he added.

  Ah – he was after pocket money. Forty dollars seemed reasonable for the amount of work involved. Had he any idea how much land there was? I wouldn’t do it for forty, but I wasn’t an underpaid (or unpaid) teenager, desperate for cash.

  “Are you related to Jim?” I asked. I hadn’t expected that, although now I thought back Jim had seemed kindly towards him and worried he might hurt himself with the logs.

  “No.”

  “Oh. To Isobel? I’m so sorry you’ve lost her.”

  “No.” Growled with impatience and something approaching anger. I decided to be quiet.

  “I’m Tom Alsop’s son. He never wanted to know me, but I’ve come to find him and get some justice for my mother.”

  Well, strike me down with a feather! So Tom had been playing away. “How old are you?” I demanded.

  “Sixteen.”

  Tom must be over sixty, so it would have been a mid-life-crisis affair. Maybe he hadn’t been married to Margaret back then? Another darn thing I needed to discover.

  I sat down on the carved camphorwood chest in the hallway, feeling the edges of the Chinese dragons and pagodas and trees biting into my bottom, and hoping it would hold my weight. “When did your mother know him?”

  “Durr. Seventeen years ago.” I practically saw his eyes roll.

  “And you’re sure about this? That you’re his son?”

  “It’s what Mum finally told me, so I want to meet him.”

  Understandable. I changed ears with the phone. “You’re going to have to wait a few more days. He’s off on a cruise right now with his wife.”

  A short silence. Then a word which I won’t repeat here. “So when’s he back?”

  Ignore the language, Merry, I told myself. He’s only a kid.

  “About a week. I’m looking after things for a while. Until they’re home and someone decides what’s happening with the cottage and the dogs.”

  “Bummer. So can I do the lawns?”

  “Yes. Sometime in the next few days? I’ll have to check and see if there’s a mower, though. She might have used a regular lawn-mowing service.”

  Alex snickered. “Nope. There’s a mower. I called in a couple of mornings back and asked if she had any jobs that needed doing. She tore out
of the garage and showed me.”

  I shivered as though someone had just walked over my grave. “You must have been almost the last person to see her alive.”

  He sniffed. “I guess. I heard she died. That’s why I thought I’d better ask again. She said forty bucks. So do you want the lawns mowed?”

  “Fair enough,” I said, trying hard not to sound spooked. Poor Isobel had probably been ready to leave for her fateful trip to the church.

  And now I had the answer to why she hadn’t locked the secret office behind her. She’d dashed out expecting heaven knows who, pulled the shelves closed but not locked them, and then forgotten to after being held up for a while by Alex.

  “Who mowed the grass before this?”

  I heard him sigh at the inquisition. “One of the farm helpers. German guy, here for work experience.”

  “Jim Drizzle didn’t seem to know about that this morning when I asked.”

  Half a scornful laugh. “Jim doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know who my father is, for starters.”

  There was a sudden storm of barking from the kitchen and the flip of the dog door. It sounded like someone was outside.

  “Okay Alex – need to go. The dogs are upset about something. Thanks for offering.” I hung the old receiver up after a fight with the curly cord and hurried through to the kitchen. There was no-one there, but the teddies led me out to the mailbox, prancing and yipping and urging me to follow them. I lifted the lid of the box and a large plastic courier envelope unfolded itself, shining in the sun and threatening to sail off in the salty breeze. What the heck? I hadn’t heard anyone arriving, although maybe over Alex’s voice and the dogs’ noisy greeting, that wasn’t entirely surprising. There was no vehicle when I looked along Drizzle Beach Road so it must have turned up past the farm and taken the shorter route back to the village. No surprise there.

  “Shush!” I hissed at the teddies. There wasn’t much of an improvement but perhaps I heard the engine of one of those DX motorcycle couriers receding into the distance?

  I reached for the envelope, which sprang flatter once I grabbed it out of the box. Addressed to Tom Alsop. Who was sending stuff to him here? And what was on all those pages inside it?

  Have you ever tried to get one of those self-stick plastic envelopes open? Not a hope unless you totally wreck it. I poked about under the flap with one finger, tried to peer inside, and admitted defeat. But if he had mail arriving here that strengthened my suspicions the office was probably still something to do with him. ‘Curiouser and curiouser’ – to quote an author a lot more famous than any of those I get to edit.

  There was no way I could keep this secret from DS Carver and Detective Wick, but I could probably delay it until tomorrow. I might have been out all afternoon and not found it until I returned in the evening, mightn’t I?

  And that reminded me to check the time, because Stephanie in Montreal should be home from the patisserie by now. I sent her a teasing text, and to my surprise and pleasure she texted back almost straight away.

  Stephanie: Secret files? Are you drunk?

  Merry: Sober as. It’s barely midday. So I’ve got you interested?

  Stephanie: With a line like that? You bet.

  Merry: Are you free to FaceTime?

  Stephanie: Yes, in five minutes because I’m going out for dinner soon. Need a cuppa.

  Brilliant! By the time Steff had her tea, my laptop was open, ready and waiting. She looked all lit up and even more gorgeous than usual.

  “Are you going out somewhere special?” I asked. “Or rather, with someone special?”

  “Early days yet,” she said. “If I expect nothing, I won’t be disappointed.”

  “Expect everything,” I said. “You just might get it. You deserve it. I bet it’s cold?” It was close to summer in Drizzle Bay, so winter in Montreal.

  “Hovering around minus twenty,” she said. I watched as she pulled a blanket around her shoulders. She was wearing quite a skimpy dress.

  I shuddered.

  “Lots of early snow this year,” she added, seeing my reaction. “A huge chunk of the city budget goes into snow removal. There are constantly graders and other machines pushing it about.” She took a sip of her tea. “So,” she said. “Secret files. This better be good.”

  “It might be very bad instead.” I knew that’d get her even more interested. “Anyway,” I added before she could interrupt, “There was an elderly lady murdered in the church here. The vicar and I found her.” I waited for the expected exclamations this time.

  “Murdered? Oh, Merry – how awful for you.”

  “Yes, grim doesn’t begin to describe it,” I agreed.

  “But hang on… You? In a church? With a vicar?”

  And there was the Steff I knew and loved. Even after a long day’s work she was quick-witted and curious.

  “Yes,” I said, wishing I’d thought to make tea as well. “Remember I said I might try house minding? I was putting a notice on the community board and got chatting with him. He looked nothing like a vicar at this stage because he was painting the church fence in shorts and a T-shirt.”

  “O-kayyyyyy.” she said. “But murdered? How?”

  I heaved a big sigh. “Yes, it was totally horrible. The vicar realized his church flower-arranging lady had been inside for a long time so we went in to make sure she was all right. And she wasn’t. She was dead on the floor, and bleeding from a head wound.”

  “Yikes!” Steff exclaimed. “Sorry – this is taking a while to sink in. And you saw her?”

  “’Fraid so. Nasty. Apart from Mum and Dad after the accident I’ve never seen anyone dead.” I squeezed my eyes closed remembering the awful night Graham and I had identified them, his quaking arm around my equally quaking shoulders.

  “Don’t, Merry. Try not to remember them like that.”

  I opened my eyes again and sent her a weak smile. She’d known them well. It had been practically as bad for her as losing her own parents.

  “Anyway, we called the emergency services, cops and ambulance came, sister of the old lady was across the road shopping. The upshot was two dogs who needed looking after in a seaside cottage for a week, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  “The dead lady’s dogs? I thought I didn’t recognize that wallpaper in the background.”

  I glanced behind me to the faded garlands of roses on the wall. “Yes, wouldn’t be my choice. It might be older than me.”

  She grinned. “Bet Graham would like it.”

  “Really?” I said, rolling my eyes.

  Her grin became a giggle. “Gotcha!”

  “The murdered lady told someone I know that she didn’t have a computer, which was a bind for me because I need Wi-Fi for my work. But I’ve found one very well hidden away and still running. I’m sure the Police don’t know about it yet so I thought I’d have a look.”

  Steff took a slow sip of her tea and looked at me very directly with her dark brown eyes. “Be careful Merry. You might be getting into something nasty if she’s been murdered.”

  “No ‘might’ about it. I’m sure I am. But I’m also hooked on it because some of this stuff is fascinating.”

  I knew she needed to finish getting ready to go out so I hurried things up. She had to be planning on wearing more than that dress if it was so cold outside. “Look – I just wanted someone else to know about the files. I think I’ll send them to my Dropbox account because I’d be interested to have another dig through them.” I took a deep breath. “It’s odd she was murdered because she was such a sweet old thing. Harmless, dowdy, poor as a church mouse. The sort of person you wouldn’t look twice at.”

  Steff nodded, eyebrows raised, waiting for more.

  “Except maybe she wasn’t. The files are weird… and seeing I’m here with time on my hands…. what harm will it do if I dig around in them and see what I can come up with? No-one will know.”

  “You could just transfer them to a thumb-drive,” she said.

&nb
sp; “But that would be stealing, Steff. An actual physical thing, not just files floating around heaven knows where.”

  My brain surely does work in strange ways – it was stealing either way, and I knew that perfectly well.

  I prodded a finger at her image. “And wouldn’t a transfer like that lead them directly to me? To be honest I don’t have a clue, but I told you I was on a jury a few months earlier? The Police computer forensics man was fascinating. He could tell everything that had been going on. He had the whole chain of messages where the accused made contacts on the Dark Web and tried to buy illegal substances. All the fake names they used, and where they got the money from and moved it to.”

  “Beyond me to know,” she said, shaking her head and then upending the last of her cup of tea. “I’m a baker, not a nerd.” She set the cup down and gave a luxurious stretch and a yawn. “I’m finally winding down from work and can probably be good company now, but you be careful.”

  “Good luck with Francois,” I said, straight-faced.

  “Lucien,” she corrected. “Oops!”

  “Lucien,” I repeated, glad to at least get his name out of her. “And of course I’ll be careful. Have fun.” I gave her a little wave before she disappeared from the screen.

  I had no idea what I thought Steff could do from half the world away, except… if anything odd happened to me, at least she could let someone know the files existed – floating around in ‘the cloud’ once I’d done it – wherever that actually is.

  Tell the cops tomorrow, Merry.

  Maybe.

  No maybe about it! You’re allowed another half day and then DS Weasel has to know.

  Maybe.

  It truly was a delicious puzzle; I knew I’d be worrying at it all the rest of the day.

  Why were the car people foreign? Were John and Eric really father and son? What was in that courier envelope addressed to Tom? Why had he built the secret office? (I was becoming ever more certain he’d been using it, because if Isobel had needed an office she could have used a spare bedroom, surely?)

  Why was Isobel interested in US real estate? Or was it Tom? How had Alex tracked Tom here? And what would become of the teddies once I’d done my week in the cottage?